i guess i’m talking about it because it happened
My father is afraid of fat and people breaking into his house. He thinks they are the same thing. I am scared of trench coats and spiders. In that order. The first time I notice my body in two years, I am on tip-toes at the edge of Lucifer’s bathtub. Here, it morphs into a cloud again, transpires into a blister that will not pop. I ask for my body to evolve, to move on and forget that it exists and it is hurting. I lick the heels of heaven and it only tastes of nothing. There isn’t anything to be proud of. I kicked a hole into the kitchen wall the first time I noticed my body. It was green and reeked of pork fat. Nothing feels any different. The first time I throw up, the shower is wet. I stuff the empty McDonald’s bag with every bad thought I have, and throw it into the garbage. For the first time in a long time, I am mostly empty. And I feel oddly clean, like a freshly-washed dog toy. It becomes a challenge to transform into a ghost, to look into my sister’s mirror and simply see nothing. My body is an archive. My body is a scar in itself. It is something which has saved me over and over again, but I would like nothing more than to exist without it. One day, I’m going to look at the world differently. One day, I’m going to trade in my eyeballs for glasses, and the whole world is going to have something to say that isn’t about how an old shirt fits me. I want to have a halo, but every time I try looking in the mirror, I see a doughnut. My dad asks what I get up to every afternoon that stops me from messaging back, and I say, well, I am a very busy person.